


Solitary Confinement

by meeshiefeet



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caryler Secret Santa 2015, Drama, F/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meeshiefeet/pseuds/meeshiefeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wills her shaking legs to carry her further, her arms flailing wildly into the cinderblock wall as she careens around another blind corner. Left, then right, then… her bearings are long gone. They are of little use now, anyway. If she survives, there may not be any reason left to make her way back to C Block. No one left to find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary Confinement

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for @rue-gi-oh for the Carylers Secret Santa gift exchange on tumblr. Carol's point of view from the tombs in Season 3.
> 
> Thank you to Liddy and Emily for beta-ing! You rock!

She wills her shaking legs to carry her further, her arms flailing wildly into the cinderblock wall as she careens around another blind corner. Left, then right, then… her bearings are long gone. They are of little use now, anyway. If she survives, there may not be any reason left to make her way back to C Block. No one left to find. T-Dog is gone. It would be foolish to think others have not been ripped from her as well, nothing remaining but torn flesh and blood and bone. The lurch of her feet slipping from beneath her, the jolt as she suddenly splays hard against the concrete floor, force her mind out of itself and back to its primitive instincts. Run. Fight. Survive. It is all she can think about right now.

She scrambles to her feet, skidding into the next hallway. There are three behind her. One in front. The knife hits its mark, but sticks, dislodging from the walker's skull only when its weight drags her into a collapsing pile against the wall. The others are too close, and this time the panic makes her miss, catching another in the throat. Its hands wrap around her arms before she can get the blade back. She spins and it catches the back of her shirt, tugging at her with enough force to knock her balance off once again.

Her eyes land on the heavy metal door, mere inches away, and she heaves herself toward it. Once. Twice. Her boot hits the walker's knee and it topples to the side for a second. It is barely long enough. She yanks at the door and scrambles inside. The door clangs shut, her pursuer unable to process that its efforts to get at her only close it tighter. Every tensed muscle in her body gives way to the realization. She is trapped. Weaponless. The flash of sense memory rises, and she crumples to the floor, her remaining strength dedicated solely to not screaming into the cramped, black space. Devoted to the silence that might keep her alive.

 

* * *

 

The dull thudding sounds outside the door have ceased, no noise filtering into the darkness for a while now. An hour, maybe more. She has lost all sense of time. Exhaustion has settled over her, the aftermath of adrenaline and forcing her way into this cell. Thirst and hunger and fatigue are secondary. Her first thought is of her family. If they are still breathing. Still fighting. She shifts to her knees and pushes slowly against the slab of metal in front of her, easing it outward. It moves only slightly, stopping almost as soon as it started moving.

She listens, waiting for movement, a harsh growl. She is greeted only by silence. The tightness in her chest relaxes, for a moment, until she pushes harder against the door. It does not budge. She flexes her arms, heaving at it, rocking back and forth to gain momentum, her breath coming fast and shallow. The door clangs loudly back against its frame.

_No. Please, God… no._

She stands, feels her way to the far side of the cell, and runs. Pain splinters through her shoulder, its familiarity almost comforting against the rising fear in her gut. The noise that comes from her throat, from the metal banging, could be her death sentence, but there is no consequence. No answer. Nothing. She can't escape it. The nothingness is inescapable. Dark and silent and crushing.

"Someone? Anyone? Is anyone out there?"

Maybe they're looking for her. Maybe they will hear.

"Anyone? Rick?" she screams. "Glenn? Maggie?"

Blackness. Quiet.

"Help me! Someone, please!"

Breathing. Someone breathing.

" _Please!_ "

Nothing but the breathing, coming faster, louder. Her heart leaps. There is someone. The breathing is getting closer, the sound of it almost violent in her ears, the motion of it cutting into her lungs. Her lungs. _Oh, God…_ It is not someone coming to save her. There is no one. No one. Only her. The breaths culminate in another scream. Unintelligible at first. Then she recognizes the word. The name. The syllables become a guttural cry in her throat, repeating over and over until they have seared her vocal cords. Until no more sound forms. She tries to speak it, to whisper it, hoping it will save her, but only a husky croak escapes her lips.

Is anybody still alive? Is he?

 

* * *

 

The heat is unbearable, but it is something to cling to. Something besides the look on T-Dog's face. Painful and horrific. His determination to save her pushed her forward. Kept her going until she ended up here. Maybe he was right about this place. It is a tomb. Her tomb. Heavy metal door and unyielding stone walls. No voice left. No strength. Only darkness and pain and the salty sting of tears that can no longer flow. It is a waking nightmare. Eyes wide open, unseeing, for… how long now?

Hours. It must be hours, since he gave her this chance. Hours of reliving his death over and over in her mind. Of not being able to close her eyes to it. He couldn't be saved, and maybe neither can she. Because he is right.

She thinks of that small, blonde head. The delicate, sweet smile. Her baby. The grief takes her breath away, the pain and longing replacing the stagnant, humid air in her lungs. Sometimes when she lies awake at night, she thinks she could almost touch her, hold her, if she just wishes hard enough. Will herself to see her baby one more time.

_Soon._

She jerks upright. As desperate as she is to see her daughter again, she is not ready to die. Not ready to give in. This life, this hard, terrible life, is only just beginning to feel like it is turning around. Like she is becoming the person she is meant to be. Is it selfish, to want that now? To want a life, when her child waits for her in death?

 

* * *

 

Her skin stopped itching. When did her skin stop itching? The long-dried sweat had been driving her mad, but now there was no sensation. The scratch of her tongue against the top of her mouth, the burn of her eyelids. Every indicator of her need for water, all stopped.

Her shoulder no longer hurts. Her legs no longer threaten to cramp. She is floating. Floating with no feeling, anywhere. No strength and no voice. Only the emptiness in her soul.

There is nothing else. No one else. Not a single other person. No walkers. Only blackness and heat. Only her thoughts. Her memories of their deaths. Her daughter, her parents, her friends. This makeshift family she had found and fought for. Even Ed. They are all gone.

Everything and everyone is gone.

An idea slowly creeps around the edges of her mind. Flicking inward and then escaping, only to crash back with a resounding fury.

She is dead. This is hell.

 

* * *

 

A noise.

_Don't be stupid. You're imagining it._

Not a noise, a voice. Voices.

_But-_

His voice.

His, and Carl's, and another, low and male. One of the prisoners. The tall one.

If she can hear them, then maybe…. She tries to scream, but only the voices beyond the door are heard. If she is not dead, why can't she scream? Why can't she call his name? Tell him she's here? She's _here_.

Is this what it's like? Being one of them? Is it only a matter of seeing him, of smelling him? The hunger will overtake her, and she won't be able to stop. Oh, God. She is going to watch him die. She is going to be the reason. Her arm moves toward the door and it clangs. It's happening. She needs to warn him. To save him, like he's saved her so many times.

_Run. Please run._

 

* * *

 

The silence washes over her, bringing relief. He is gone. Carl, too. They are alive. As long as they leave her here, they will stay that way.

She settles back into herself. Into the darkness, where she belongs.

 

* * *

 

A crash. Yelling. A dull thud as a body lands near the door. Voices again.

"That's Carol's knife."

_No. Daryl, no. Run._

It is quiet. Maybe he did. Maybe he saw her knife and realized what she has become.

Shuffling footsteps slowly fade, then return. One person now instead of three. She knows it's him. He would insist. The pact they had, that the group made, bonding them together, trusting each other to uphold… she always knew it would be him. He will take responsibility for her, just as she would for him. They are always there for each other. Protecting each other. She tries to protect him now.

Her arm crashes into the door, but it barely moves. She tries again. Again. Each time more desperate. Each time weaker.

Her efforts are punctuated by a sharp noise. Metal on concrete.

_No._

He is working up to it. Working to that point where he will open the door. Where her hunger will win out, and she will be helpless to stop it.

The last clang she can manage is answered by sharper sounds, then his boots stomping away. She thinks he is leaving, but his boots thud back, fast and determined. A dragging sound, and then…

Knife raised. Ready to put her down with hesitation. Thank God. Thank God the hunger isn't rolling through her yet. Thank God she will be able to hold it back. That he is ready. That he will take her out before she can get the jump on him.

That face. Those eyes. Blue and flashing with pain. She can't look. All she can do is wait for his knife to end it all.

Nothing. There is still nothing. Why is there nothing?

His fingers cup her chin, turning her face toward his. There is no pain in his eyes. Confusion. Relief. But why? Why is he relieved?

"Hold on."

He throws her arm over his shoulder, raises her to her feet and pauses, staring at her. His face tells her a thousand stories. Stories of hope and loss. Stories of pain. Of need. Of love. She sees it in his eyes… the last story before he scoops her off her feet.

She is not dead.

She fought the darkness, and has made it this far. She has to keep fighting. For him. For all of them. She clings to his neck as he carries her back through the tombs, losing bits of time before opening her eyes, expecting the blackness of her hell, but seeing woven metal supports and a dirty gray mattress over her head. She is home.

He lifts her head and tips a cup toward her mouth, most of the water escaping down her chin, but some getting in. Her instincts kick in and she grabs for it, greedily drinking as much as she can before he pulls it away.

"Whoa, there. Slow. Too fast and you ain't gonna keep it down."

He lets the cup settle against her lips again, and she battles the urge to swallow its contents all at once. He watches her closely, carefully monitoring her intake until he decides she's had enough. She is still thirsty, but she trusts him. She always has.

"Is everyone…."

She can barely speak, still hoarse from screaming and dehydration.

His eyes flick away before meeting hers again.

"Don't worry 'bout that now. Gotta focus on gettin' you better."

"T…"

"I know."

"Did he… did he turn?"

"No." He brings the cup back to her lips, ending their conversation. The sadness in his voice tells her T-Dog is not their only loss, but she won't force him to tell her. He's done enough for her today. That burden can be carried by another.

The water is warm, yet soothing. She feels herself begin to sweat again. Feels the cooling effect of it on her skin. Feels it begin to itch, and she can't help but snicker at how much she welcomes the discomfort.

"What?" he asks, confused at the sudden amusement.

"My skin itches." Her voice is smoother, slowly returning as the water seeps into her.

"And that's good?"

"It means I'm still here."

She looks up at him, at the eyes that strain with the emotion of a second chance, and reaches for the hand resting next to hers.

Her face tells him a single story.


End file.
